


"You're safe now. I've got you."

by jojojoji



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Dangerous Rook, Dark Rook, F/M, Homicidal Rook, Protective Rook, Psychopathic Rook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojojoji/pseuds/jojojoji
Summary: Weeks after John Seed’s plane goes down and a charred corpse was found amongst the wreckage, Rook receives a radio call from Resistance members saying that he wasn’t dead, that he must’ve used one of his men as a cadaver, that they have him tied up at a cabin and are having a little “fun” with him until she arrives to do the honors.TL:DR - You thought Rook was a beast when Jacob twisted the key on his little music box? Look and see what happens when someone touches her baby boy.





	"You're safe now. I've got you."

You see nothing but red as fists and boots rain down his body.

He’s never looked so small.

Your instincts take over, the primal urge to protect, to decimate, to destroy erasing the scarce bits of humanity you’ve tried to salvage over the years.

There are five of them.

The first gets his throat sliced, from ear-to-ear, blood cascading down his chest like a visceral waterfall.

The second gets his neck snapped, the familiar sound of vertebrae cracking sending chills down your spine in such a delicious way that you salivate at the noise.

The third gets his nose jabbed into his forehead, an instantaneous death, one that you’d wanted to indulge in but there were two degenerates left to deal with.

The fourth fumbles for his radio, to call for back-up, hissing out profanities about being a fucking traitor, but you’re unholstering his friend’s pistol from his waistband and stuffing the barrel in his mouth, firing a single round before he could so much as turn the dial.

The radio clatters to the ground, as does the fifth one, who has your knife lodged in his chest, right through the pulmonary artery, wide eyes staring at you in shocked, confused disbelief, mouth agape in a gargled scream thick with blood - a quick death that wasn’t deserved, but prolonging the death of this filth wasn’t your priority.

•

You’re at his side, hands rough with callouses producing a startling contrast as they gingerly cup his cheeks, cradling his face, like he’s a porcelain doll.

“John? John, baby? Can you hear me?”

His breath stutters in his chest, his heart pounding wildly against the aching cage of his ribs, his chest flooding with heat and want and desperation.

Baby.

Never in his life had something so sweet, so tender, so loving been addressed to him.

Never in his life could he have imagined someone would call him as such.

Never in his life did he think anyone would want someone so broken.

You’d saved him, without so much as a thought for your own well-being, killing his attackers - members of the Resistance - without a grain of hesitation.

For kidnapping him.

For threatening him.

For hurting him.

You cut through the thick rope that binds his wrists and ankles, as easily as slicing melted butter, tenderly massaging the skin that’s been scraped raw from the material, encouraging blood to circulate to his numb extremities.

“Let’s get out of here, huh? We’ll clean you up nice and proper—“

With the newfound freedom of his limbs, John snares his arms around your waist and crushes your lips together.

You’re startled by the initial contact, nearly lose your balance and fall on-top of him, but that’s exactly what John wants, so he hoists you further, so that you’re in his lap, straddling him, as he works at your mouth with a persistence and dedication that would put Sisyphus to shame.

“John, baby—“

God, you sound absolutely delectable when your voice is wrecked with him.

“— I don’t think this is the best time—“

He disagrees. He thinks this is the perfect time. The only damage he’s received were a gash to the temple for when they’d knocked him out, bruised ribs and a sore spine from their fists and boots, and a bad case of wounded pride for being caught in the first fucking place that’d take anywhere from a few weeks to a few years to heal completely.

But with your skin beneath his hands, your taste on his lips, your beautiful amber eyes that are overflowing with concern, relief, adoration…

He doesn’t feel any of the pain inflicted by those heathens - dead, bleeding out, a visceral masterpiece that John would admire under different circumstances because when that bloodthirsty wrath was unleashed from inside you, it was absolutely glorious - instead, the only thing he can feel down to his marrow is pure, unabashed, raw need.

“Please,” he whimpers, needy and broken, uncaring of how pathetic he must seem, because you - his deputy, his savior, his guardian angel - are his salvation.

“I need you.”

You brush back the loose, dark strands of hair that’ve fallen out of their gelled style, kiss the tight furrow between his brows with a featherlight, adoring touch.

“You have me, sweetheart. You’ll always have me.”

John whines in the back of his throat, fusing your mouths together again, licking his way past your lips, the undeniable taste of nicotine and mint making his head spin.

Fingers slide into his hair, nails delicately grazing the back of his skull, tilting his head just so your mouths slot together perfectly, inducing a shiver that slithers down his spine and make goosebumps bubble across his skin.

“John… My beautiful John…”

He chokes, cutting off the sob that threatens to reduce him to little more than a crying mess, and buries his face in your neck.

“Yours, yours, yours.”

You kiss his temple sweetly, rocking him back and forth gently, murmuring sweet, delicate nothings in his ears.

His fingers scrabble at the back of your jacket, clutching to the dark denim like if he didn’t, you’d evaporate out of his hands.

He realizes now that he wasn’t scared of pain, of torture, of death - but he was petrified of leaving this earth, rotting in the soil, when he’d finally found the person who made life worth living.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

For the first time in his life, he truly believes it.

•

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Holland Valley. This is your friendly neighborhood deputy speaking. By now, I’m sure some of you have heard from various sources that John Seed wasn’t the burnt corpse found in his airplane weeks ago. I’m using this frequency to assure you that he is, indeed, very much alive. I’m afraid that the same can’t be said for the Resistance members that tried to take matters into their own hands. I will say this once and only once. This is not a betrayal. This is a warning. Touch John Seed and it’ll be the last time you feel. For those who think that’s an empty threat, I implore you to drop-by McCoy’s cabin for reassurance. Words just can’t do it justice. Over and out.”


End file.
